False King
by LadyShadowcat
Summary: They said something happened when High King Fingon drove his sword into Morgoth's throat—something fell and black pouring out of the Dark Lord's body, bleeding into Fingon's. [Dark!Fingon AU. Implied FingonxMaedhros.]


Turgon had always been tall. Tall, strong (more handsome than his older brother), and damned foolish. He looked out over his city now, the city he'd tried so hard to keep safe, in sight of all his subjects—

Most screamed when they saw his head upon the pike. Fingon simply chose not to look at his brother. (Idril—blessedly—had fainted, and so her screams were but short-lived.)

So he looked on his brother's lords instead. Bloodied, chained, heads bowed… they were pitiful. But Fingon was a merciful King, and they had served Turgon most faithfully; that was, until the moment of his death. But they'd placed their faith in Fingon, allowing him private audience with Gondolin's false king. His little brother, who towered above him and in his last moments had cowered beneath him.

He should execute all of them. Place their heads beside Turgon's.

They would attract flies.

"You brought this upon yourselves," Fingon explained, pacing in front of them. Blue had been exchanged for black, gold threads for crimson, much like the blood dripping down most of the lords' faces. "You did not aid me. You hid from me like the cowards you are. Did you think you would stay hidden forever?"

No answer.

"If you resist me again, I will kill you," he said.

"Then do it," came one clear voice. A blonde head raised defiantly. How… _tiresome_.

Fingon motioned for his adviser to deal with him. He'd found him deep in the prisons of Angband; scarred, ruined, terrible, he made such an invaluable companion in moments like these.

"Place his head beside my brother's," Fingon instructed once the sword had completed its arc, slicing through veins and tendons and severing the golden head from its body. "Now will the rest of you defy me as well? Or will you obey your true King?"

Some obeyed. The rest joined Turgon and the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. (An embarrassing name, Fingon thought, thinking how easy it had always been to snap the blooms off the dandelions growing in the fields. Maitimo had a talent for it, sending their heads twirling down to the grass to land face-up. Findekáno's merely plummeted face-down, joining a host of others who'd all befallen the same fate.)

* * *

_They said something happened when High King Fingon drove his sword into Morgoth's throat—something fell and black pouring out of the Dark Lord's body, bleeding into Fingon's. Those who had been present, Fingon's own guard, recalled seeing their king's blue eyes turn black, all the way to the edges, before both bodies had fallen to the ground._

_The Noldor had borne Fingon's body away, the news of his death spreading like wildfire through the gathered armies while fire burned the Dark Lord's corpse._

_A day later, Fingon woke up, looking the same as he always had._

_A month later, all the guardsmen were dead, executed at their king's hand—though the few that had proof of that were soon dead as well._

* * *

Maitimo. He was Maedhros now, a scarred and broken thing, who always looked a little less broken with his back arching and his lips parted, gasping out "yes" and "Findekáno" and sometimes even "I love you."

That was before.

Fingon remembered, and he'd felt guilty for driving him away after the fifth and final battle. He knew he would not understand; Maedhros was sharp, clever, and would have put a stop to his plans then and there.

He'd felt guilty when Maglor was brought before him, lips sewn shut and fingers broken—Maedhros was fond of Maglor. Fingon had been fond of him too, once, which he mentioned as he pulled the Silmaril from the once-great singer's bleeding hand.

He'd been less fond of the other sons of Fëanor, and so he'd found no guilt in prizing the second Silmaril from Curufin's cold, dead hand.

* * *

"They say the third is in Nelyafinwë's possession."

It was not new information. Fingon glanced down from his throne at his brother's former lord—his name he did not remember. He did not care. "I handed it to him myself," he stated calmly, eyes drifting back to where he'd mounted the two Silmarils on the wall. His hands had burnt in his attempt to hold them, but his eyes did not burn from looking at them. And so he looked.

"He will come to me," he added when the lord did not leave. He would come. He would reason. He would fail.

Fingon would bind him, break him if he needed to—and then he'd have all he needed. He'd be happy then.


End file.
